Thinking of these historical patterns, my mind kept returning to one question: was the church perhaps also wrong in its condemnation of same-sex relationships? History showed there was a decent possibility. My spiritual home, the evangelical church, always presented a position of certainty on theological issues, but I had to accept that it had consistently gotten things very wrong in years gone by.
January arrived and a new semester began. The new year brought with it a generous downfall of snow. The streets looked like something out of a fairy tale. I cycled past a tall black lamppost surrounded by snowdrifts. A few yards away was a door with a carving of two golden faun-like creatures carrying panpipes—the location thought to have inspired C. S. Lewis to dream up Narnia, where it was “always winter but never Christmas.”
Arriving back at my hall of residence, I saw an amusing sight—countless students and a few staff out on the snow-covered lawn throwing snowballs at one another. As I neared them, one of the boys from my dorm hallway landed a huge wet snowball right on the side of my head. I laughed and threw one back, missing him by a mile.
Cold and rather soggy, I headed into the building to warm up. I’d left a pile of papers in our college reading room earlier and needed to collect them. I preferred to work in the Radcliffe Camera, but it was quite a trek to get down there, so sometimes it was easier to use the small library within our building. Walking in, I found it deserted. It seemed the whole student population had joined the snowball battle outside. I’d never had that library to myself—a luxury for a bookish geek like me—and I walked up and down the aisles savoring the privacy.
A thought entered my head: I wonder whether there are any books in here about . . . being gay and Christian. I blushed as the thought emerged; the topic still filled me with shame and awkwardness. I had huge respect for spiritual leadership, but my recent studies had shown me that even the most senior church leaders had got things wrong in the past, despite their best attempts. It gave me the desire to keep exploring the Bible for myself and to read more widely.
Checking to see that I was the only one present, I found a section marked Sexual Ethics and followed the alphabetical shelves to H and Homosexuality. I grabbed a few paperbacks and started scanning them. The volumes I’d pulled out were written by “liberal” theologians, the sort my church back home had warned might lead me astray during my university studies. I felt as though I was betraying God by even looking, and I could feel my heart in my chest, much louder than usual.
Leaning against the shelf, ready for flight at any minute if someone returned and saw me, I explored the books with caution. The authors suggested that for centuries we’d mistranslated and misunderstood the Bible passages thought to relate to same-sex relationships. These writers explained that the Greek word in scripture thought to describe same-sex relationships was arsenokoites, a term that hadn’t occurred in any previous historical documents. St. Paul may well have coined the term himself, they said. As a result, translating it was partly guesswork.
Arsenokoites was a word made of two parts: “arsen” (male) and “koites” (bed). Beyond that, nothing was known about what it actually meant to Paul. In the King James Bible it was translated as “abusers of themselves with mankind.” It surprised me that such a key verse, used to utterly condemn same-sex relationships, hung on a word no one could accurately translate or cross-reference for contextual meaning. Many scholars studying Paul’s writings had apparently questioned whether this term referred to something quite different: to temple prostitution and pederasty (sexual relations between a man and a boy). Based on how unknown the true translation of arsenokoites was, many scholars believed it had nothing to do with equal, loving, same-sex partners. It also seemed to appear in places where Paul was focused on economic sins, not sexual sins, suggesting it was about power imbalance and coercive abuse, not monogamous, loving relationships.
Reading further, I found the books addressed the story of Sodom and Gomorrah—from which the word “sodomy” originated. My thoughts drifted back to kids’ church and the picture book with vivid drawings of those cities burning to the ground, while fire and brimstone rained down from the sky. My eyebrows rose as I read several scholars who claimed the story of Sodom and Gomorrah had absolutely no connection to homosexuality. Rather, they said, it was about the sins of gang rape and inhospitality.
I grabbed a Bible and scanned through the story in Genesis 19:1–11. Lot, the main character in the story, was visited by people from out of town. That night when he and his guests were inside the house, “all the men from every part of the city” had appeared at his door, insisting Lot surrender his visitors, so they could forcibly “have sex with them” (NIV). I flipped back to the scholarly book that pointed out that if “all the men from every part of the city” wanted to rape the visitors, it wasn’t about their orientation, but about something else. Why? Because it wasn’t logically possible for an entire city to consist only of gay men. Rather, they explained, in that ancient culture men raping male strangers was a common demonstration of power and dominance.
Another interesting point was drawn from Lot’s response to the angry mob. When Lot tried to calm them down, he made them a counteroffer. He said they could have his two virgin daughters instead. In addition to being an appalling act toward his daughters, this suggested he knew the mob could be pacified by women. Lot lived in the city, so he knew these men well. If he’d known them to be gay, the last thing he would have done is offer them a sexual opportunity with anyone female.
I wondered, “Why was Sodom judged by God?” The men’s thirst for violent gang rape seemed one reason at least—and had nothing to do with homosexuality. I followed a few footnotes and found the book of Ezekiel shed helpful light on it. Ezekiel directly states that the “sin of Sodom” was inhospitality and a lack of social justice, as the people “did not aid the poor and needy” (16:49–50). The same reason was echoed in the book of Hebrews, which assumed that readers would be familiar with the story of Sodom and the angelic visitors: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (13:2).
Suddenly the library door creaked open—a few snow-covered students had made their way back into the college to resume work. I shoved the books back onto the shelf, not keen to be spotted in the Sexual Ethics section of the library in case it raised questions, and headed out.
12
The next morning, I pulled my dorm-room curtains open to see heavy snowflakes were still cascading out of the stone-gray sky. I’d had a night of disturbed sleep, as my mind was racing with questions about the books I’d read the evening before. “I’m getting sucked into the sort of ideas my church friends back home warned me about . . .” I worried to myself, as I pulled on jeans and a hoodie, ready for another day of university.
I tried to work on an essay all day in the library, but was hoping everyone might leave so I could sneak over to the Sexual Ethics section again. The dinner bell rang, perhaps the fastest way to summon any gang of hungry students. Maybe, I thought, if I skip the evening meal, I’ll have the place to myself. And I did.
Lurking beside the H for Homosexuality shelf, I grabbed a book and started reading about Romans chapter 1, the crucial New Testament text thought to condemn same-sex relationships. This theologian argued Romans 1 had nothing to do with being gay and Christian. “Hmm,” I said under my breath, “I’m not so sure . . .” He pointed out that St. Paul specifically addressed people who had “traded the worship of God for the worship of idols”—they had rejected God completely. On that basis, it could not apply to LGBTQ+ Christians who were putting Christ first in their lives.
The book also noted that what St. Paul criticized was “unnatural relations.” Paul’s viewpoint would have been heavily influenced by his culture, where relationships between people of the same gender were seen as the result of insatiable lust, practiced by those who could have been content with heterosexual sex but were looking for novel experiences
with motives of excess and greed and an absence of self-control. So the activities he referenced were about excess and treating others like functionaries, not about equal partners, and not about people who followed Jesus. The book’s author pointed out that for gay people, a committed same-sex partnership wasn’t an outlet for “uncontrolled lust”—it was an opportunity to “sanctify their desires” in the context of a covenantal union.
I was fascinated to learn St. Paul used the same Greek word—translated as “unnatural”—elsewhere. In 1 Corinthians 11:2–16 he declared that men having long hair, and women praying without their heads covered, were both “unnatural” and therefore a “disgrace.” Using that same word for hairstyles and head coverings suggested that there were cultural values at work here rather than fixed, timeless moral imperatives. No women wore head coverings in any church I’d been a part of, and no one told men they were sinning if they grew their hair past their shoulders.
Leaning against the library shelf, I took all of this information in. The author certainly seemed to have done his research—and it made a surprising amount of sense. I felt as though I’d cracked open Pandora’s box and it unsettled me immensely. I needed to get some head space to think.
Wycliffe Hall had a beautiful chapel, with a wooden ceiling and wonderful echoey acoustics, so I headed there. It was empty, so I sat down at the piano. In the silence, my mind kept returning to the books I’d been reading and how well researched the scholars seemed. They appeared to have strong, robust answers to my difficult questions. Could I, someday, dare to be openly gay and Christian? Based on these new ways to understand the biblical texts, perhaps I could. But making that decision would turn my life upside down in ways that terrified me, and my conscience was still skeptical about “liberal” theology.
For now, all I knew was one thing: I wanted God to be my priority. Whatever conclusions I would reach on this difficult issue, I wanted him to be first in my life. Obedience to him mattered more to me than anything else.
My fingers ran over the black and white piano keys, and I started to make up some lyrics. After a while they took shape, and I scribbled them into a notebook.
ABOVE ALL ELSE
Jesus, my passion in life is to know you.
May all other goals bow down to this journey of loving you more.
Jesus, you’ve showered your goodness on me,
Given your gifts so freely,
But there’s one thing I’m longing for.
So, hear my heart’s cry
And my prayer for this life:
Above all else, above all else,
Above all else,
Jesus, give me yourself.
Savior, the more that I see your beauty,
The more that I glimpse your glory,
My heart is captured by you.
Jesus, you are my greatest treasure.
Nothing this world can offer ever compares to you.
So, hear my heart’s cry
And my prayer for this life:
Above all else, above all else,
Above all else,
Jesus, give me yourself.
The song summed up the way I felt as I sat there in the chapel that night. Nothing meant more to me than my faith. As I tried to figure out what to do with the new theology I was reading, God was still my highest priority and my greatest love.
I introduced the song a few weeks later at church, and people easily caught on to the simple chorus. Vineyard Records showed interest in it too, saying, “Send us a demo of that song—we’ll record it on a future CD,” which they did.
As doors opened for me to sing at Vineyard national conferences, it became my most requested song so far. And every time I played it, I remembered the evening in Wycliffe chapel when I wrote it as a prayer. It expressed my commitment to follow God, even through all the confusion I was battling.
As the snow melted and another spring rolled around in Oxford, I received the news that I would be taking a new class: Contemplative Spirituality. My tutors would be two globally renowned thinkers in this field, a nun called Sister Benedicta Ward and an Eastern Orthodox bishop named Kallistos Ware.
What I would learn from them would introduce me to a deep and ancient world—the roots of Christianity in the monastic tradition. It would expose my obsession with having a faith that felt watertight—one where everything neatly added up—and remind me that faith should be rooted in mystery and wonder rather than in sterile claims of certainty.
Walking underneath spring’s cloudless skies, I headed to my first tutorial with Sister Benedicta. She was known around the world as the leading translator of the writings of the desert fathers and mothers, a group of Christians who in the third century withdrew to the deserts of Egypt to seek God. When I arrived, my eyes scanned Sister Benedicta’s study. Her shelves were lined with books that looked older than I was. A few simple religious icons hung on the walls. Peace was tangible in the room and I felt my shoulders relax. I sensed she was a person who knew God deeply and welcomed the curious minds of her students; this was a safe place to ask questions.
As Sister Benedicta led me through the writings of the desert fathers, they struck me as highly relevant to twenty-first-century faith. One in particular jumped out. It was an ancient story about Abbot Anthony, later revered as St. Anthony the Great and considered the father of all monks. Renowned for his wisdom, Anthony was often visited in the desert by those wanting to learn from him. One day a group came to see him that included one of his respected students, Abbot Joseph. The story went like this:
Some elders once came to Abbot Anthony, and there was also with them Abbot Joseph. Wishing to test them, Abbot Anthony brought the conversation to the Holy Scriptures. And he began, from the youngest, to ask them the meaning of this or that text.
Each one replied as best he could, but Abbot Anthony said to them: “You have not understood it yet.”
After them all, he asked Abbot Joseph: “What about you? What do you say this text means?”
Abbot Joseph replied, “I do not know what it means.”
Abbot Anthony said, “Truly Abbot Joseph alone has found the way, for he replied that he knows not.”
When I read the final sentence of that story, an unexpected smile crept across my face. Truly Abbot Joseph alone has found the way, for he replied that he knows not. It was so refreshing that Joseph was praised for not knowing the answer. It stood in stark contrast to my conservative faith, where we prided ourselves on having every difficult theological question figured out.
But here in the desert fathers’ story was a different system of measurement, one in which embracing the mystery of God—and admitting we could never fully figure out the answers—was seen as praiseworthy and mature, not as weak and lacking in faith. It felt like inhaling lungfuls of fresh air.
I met with Sister Benedicta week after week and relief crept over me. For years, I’d lived under the heavy burden of obsessively needing to get every theological question answered and tied up with a neat bow. She was gently helping me to see how absurd that was—God could not be placed in a box or fully understood by our limited human minds. In the depths of her relationship with God, I could see a far richer way of approaching faith—one rooted not in anxiety and arrogance, but in wonder and mystery.
That semester, the Contemplative Spirituality course introduced me to some of the best-known Christian “mystics”: St. John of the Cross, St. Teresa of Avila, and Julian of Norwich and a text called The Cloud of Unknowing. All of them wrote about mystery within the Christian faith, that we had to do a lot of “unknowing” as we let go of our unrealistic, fixed ideas about God. These ideas felt refreshingly honest. God was vastly beyond human minds, so faith should never be treated like an algebraic equation that must perfectly add up.
The second tutor in my Contemplative Spirituality course was Bishop Kallistos Ware, one of the most revered Eastern Orthodox theologians in the world. I loved his deep sonorous voice and long white beard, and couldn’t
help thinking that he resembled the academic equivalent of Santa Claus. Bishop Kallistos explained:
In the Christian context, we do not mean by a “mystery” merely that which is baffling and an insoluble problem. A mystery is, on the contrary, something that is revealed for our understanding, but that we never understand exhaustively, because it leads into the depth or the darkness of God. The eyes are closed—but they are also opened.1
The more I pondered it, the more absurd it seemed that theology could be neatly explained in a theology textbook. Of course it couldn’t—but this was a big departure from the culture of certainty I’d been raised in. The obsession with fixed answers felt increasingly wrong to me: if God can fit into a box, it’s no longer God we are dealing with but someone made in our own image.
Perhaps, I thought, it even had resonance with the commandment not to make “graven images.” Evangelical theology seemed to paint a picture of God—a graven image of sorts—and tell everyone else it was the only likeness of him that existed. As the biblical scholar Peter Enns points out, rather than being a sign of mature faith, this approach could be seen as committing “the sin of certainty.”2 It was interesting to think it all over, and I found myself agreeing.
Bishop Kallistos introduced me to a new perspective on what it meant to be faithful to Christian history. We weren’t diminishing it by changing our minds on certain things; that was all part of the journey. As he put it, “Holy tradition is not static but dynamic, not defensive but exploratory, not closed and backward-facing but open to the future.”3
He patiently explained: “Tradition is not merely a formal repetition of what was stated in the past, but it is an active reexperiencing of the Christian message in the present. The only true tradition is living and creative, formed from the union of human freedom with the grace of the Spirit.”4
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